


Common Tongue

by shakespeareishq



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Subspace, blowjobs all the way down, shh just come - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-05 17:15:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16371782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakespeareishq/pseuds/shakespeareishq
Summary: James is definitely NOT jealous, and Jack Rackham is definitely NOT thirsty.They both end up with rather more than they bargained for.





	Common Tongue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zooeyscigar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zooeyscigar/gifts).



> Title from Hozier but I figure ya'll coulda guessed that. :P
> 
> Thanks Ray for being my A++ beta <3

They’re at it again, and James loathes every fucking second.

Vane and Rackham, that is. It seems as if every time James wants merely to have a quiet drink in the tavern, maybe chat a bit with Hal or Eleanor or Mr. Scott, Vane and his crew feel the need to saunter in and--and it was better back when Vane was fucking Eleanor since they had the decency to disappear upstairs. Then James wouldn’t have to _see_ Rackham depositing himself in his Captain’s lap like it was his fucking throne, pressing his hand and whispering doubtlessly filthy things in Vane’s ear.

The first time James had seen it happen, Vane conducting business with Rackham on his lap like it was nothing, like Rackham was a fine lady’s little dog, James watched with something akin to horrified incredulity every time Rackham paused in his quest to leave as many love bites on Vane's neck as possible to interject when his opinion as quartermaster was warranted. Vane sat there, very unlike a fine lady, and granted Rackham indulgent little smiles and even kisses once he’d gotten drunk enough, Bonny sitting in the corner glaring at the room at large, their decidedly larger hound--all bite and no bark. The two of them had looked so fucking _happy_ all night that James wanted to storm over to them and upturn their table.

But of course he didn’t. And won’t tonight either. It’s hardly Vane’s or Rackham’s fault James misses the love of his life the way he’s heard men talk about missing limbs, raw and hot and aching even though nothing’s left there to feel. It’s not their fault either that Nassau isn’t London. In London, save for the Molly houses where James had never dared to go, they’d be dead for this alone. Nassau doesn’t care that they’re all thieves and it certainly doesn’t care that some of them are also sodomites. Hell, James has officiated marriages of his own crew. For the most part he also doesn’t care.

Except that there’s always been something in Rackham that reminds him of Thomas: his slender frame, the way he dances rhetorical circles around anyone save for Vane, Bonny, and James himself when they’ve had occasion to speak, and James only because he was once used to Thomas leaping from idea to idea like some sort of overactive monkey in the far off jungle; yet Rackham like Thomas lacked a good deal of common sense. The way James is horrified to think that if Thomas were a pirate he’d dress exactly the same as Rackham does. It’s really not much when he’s sober, considering Rackham’s coloring is all wrong, and his accent is clearly an affectation, but when James is in his cups he can’t help but long for Thomas to come and set himself in James’ lap just so, to kiss and touch and press _his_ hand, and fuck anyone who has a problem with it. Maybe even to set himself in Thomas’ lap. Watching them, it’s so very easy for James to hate Rackham and Vane for flaunting themselves instead of himself for not doing more to try and save his truest love.

So he does, glaring darkly over his rum and keeping only half an ear on what Eleanor is saying about leads.

“I give up. You’re on your fucking own if you won’t stop brooding for five minutes to hear me out Flint.”  
  
“What?” Shit. He hadn’t been giving Eleanor his half an ear.  
  
“Exactly. Talk to me in the morning when you’re sober and you’ve forgotten about your bizarre religious convictions again.”  
  
“ _What?_ ” This time it’s genuine confusion. Thomas was the religious one. James had never seen fit to care one way or the other.

Eleanor mistakes this for him still not hearing her. “Good _night_ Flint. Get hold of yourself will you? They aren’t hurting you and I won’t have you causing trouble in my tavern.”  
  
“Ellie I’d never--”  
  
She sighs. “I hope you’re right. I expect it from Charles, not from you James,” the use of his given name lending grave sincerity to the weight of her disapproval. She then proceeds to ring the large bell that signals everyone to “Get the fuck out of my tavern and come back tomorrow!”  
  
James downs the last few swallows of his rum and makes to leave with the last few stragglers, unfortunately including the captain and crew of the _Ranger_. It’s too late to travel all the way back to Miranda tonight, but he can probably still find a room somewhere, or more likely sleep in the alcove downstairs if Eleanor is feeling charitable after his being so rude. It’s nice enough to sleep out on the beach if he has to, wouldn’t be the first time he’s done it.

He knows he shouldn’t be an ass to them directly. He knows that. Well, he _knew_ that some amount of rum ago. Now he bumps Vane in the shoulder rather hard as they exit, James crossing in the opposite direction to ask Eleanor about her spare bed. He’s hoping Vane will hit him so that he might have an excuse to punch Vane in his great big stupid happy face. If he’s very lucky Vane will then beat the shit out of him until he can’t feel the pain in his heart for the pain in his body, and after that he might even feel better in the morning. Bruised but oddly cleansed.  
  
But Vane...doesn’t. He reacts of course, but James had been sure Vane would respond with fists, not a scoff and an admonition of “just grow the fuck up already Flint. Christ.” He tightens his grip around Rackham’s waist and begins to march his quartermaster-cum-lover and their little entourage out the door with pointed determination to not be bothered further.  
  
Rackham, however, twists out of Vane’s grip. The pair of them have a conversation entirely with their eyebrows that Flint probably could’ve kept up with were he sober. Rackham seems to come out on top because Vane throws up his hands and says “fine, if you must. But it’s none of my fucking business if Flint wants to act like a petulant child and you shouldn’t have to make it yours.”  
  
“Trust me darling, our friend the captain isn’t making me do a single thing I haven’t wanted to do for weeks now.”

Vane’s eyebrows shoot up again. “Really?”  
  
Rackham scoffs. “Please Charles, like you haven’t.”

“Fuck you Jack.”  
  
“Later darling, I’ll catch up with you.”

Vane, Bonny, and the others all leave at the dismissal. James has a moment to be mildly impressed at Rackham’s ability to command the rest if them, and then he remembers he should be bracing for the inevitable punch. He’ll let Rackham get in one for free; James deserves it.

Except no blow comes.

“Did you really think I was going to hit you?” Rackham is looking at him with genuine curiosity.  
  
James manages a shrug that he hopes conveys ‘not sure what else you were gonna do.’ When it apparently does not, he replies, “Well, yeah.”  
  
“Like I would stoop to something so barbaric. I merely want a word Flint.”

“A word.”

“My god man does drink truly make you so feeble minded? Don’t answer that. I shall endeavor to remain civilized although you’ve clearly demonstrated that you yourself cannot.”  
  
It’s James’ turn to raise his eyebrows. Rackham turns to Eleanor, wiping down the bar and scowling at the pair of them still in her tavern after she’d given the order to leave.  
Rackham speaks again, this time not to James. “Mistress Guthrie, might you have a room where Captain Flint and I may converse in private? I suspect you’d like this business resolved as much as the rest of us, and your help in this matter would be most appreciated.”

Eleanor jabs a finger towards the alcove separated by the wrought iron gate with the bed Flint was hoping to sleep in tonight. “That way. Good fucking luck Jack.”  
  
Rackham thanks her with a flourish of a bow that makes James and Eleanor both roll their eyes. James feels secretly glad for the camaraderie because he has absolutely no idea what the fuck Jack is going to say to him, though he certainly guesses at why he’s about to say it. He’s practically been attempting homicide through watching them alone, for more than a month now, gorgon-like. He almost reaches up to make sure his hair hasn’t transformed into snakes, but he’s not quite _that_ drunk.  
  
“You’re drunk.” Rackham observes, astute as ever despite his own evening of drink and decadence as he shuts the gate behind them. “You should sit down.”  
  
Unfortunately, the only place to sit here is on the bed. It feels like giving Rackham the high ground. “I’ll stand, thanks.”  
  
“Suit yourself.” Rackham chooses to lean against the chest of drawers, giving seemingly little care that he nearly plants his the sleeve of his lemon yellow coat in a candle, the pale pink embroidered silk of his shirt covering his bent wrist nearly to the fingertips, a sort of deliberate artlessness to the jut of his hip, but James has always seen the shrewd quartermaster beneath the foppish veneer. It’s his job to see.

“You know what I’m going to say don’t you?”

“I have no idea.” James answers semi-truthfully.

Jack sighs. “You’re as bad as Charles, honestly. Fine, I’ll right out with it then. I know we are rivals in a business sense but I've never been given to think that you loathe either Charles or I as people--well, maybe Charles, a bit--so I feel I must inquire as to what the _fuck_ your problem is.”

James makes to say something, anything, in response to that, but Rackham interrupts--”You've never struck me as the particularly religious type, either, Flint, so don't lie and say you find the thought of us fucking morally repugnant.”

But how could he possibly tell the truth to Jack fucking Rackham of all people.

Except...except Jack would understand, wouldn’t he? James hears the way he speaks about Vane--‘Chaz.’ He calls him ‘my darling,’ ‘my love.’ Sees the look in his eyes when he looks at Vane while Vane is paying attention to something else-- _knows_ that look. He’s worn it himself. The temptation to drunkenly confess everything to the lover of the man who considers himself James’ biggest foe is shockingly compelling in this moment.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“Even if I thought you would, you'd tell everyone from here to Tortuga.”  
  
“What, that captain Flint's a sodomite? Oh don’t give me that look. Charles may be deliberately obtuse when he wants to be but we both know I’m not. You’ve been infected with a certain green-eyed monster and it’s mocking the meat it feeds on. Mind, I don’t suspect you specifically want either Charles or myself, you seem more angry at the mere fact of our being involved so publically. Ergo, either you have or possibly had a lover that for whatever reason you feel you cannot be open about due at least in part to his sex, or you’re lonely and you’d like one. Am I so very far off?”

He isn’t, and the last thing James means to do is give him the satisfaction of knowing it, so he keeps his face as neutral as he can. He’s starting to sober up and he wishes he weren’t.  
  
Something must give way in his face regardless because Jack looks satisfied by his lack of response. Then Rackham’s judgemental expression softens and he claps a slim warm hand on James’ shoulder. James is too stunned by the contact to brush him off. “For what it’s worth, I’m not unsympathetic, and even if I were inclined to go spreading such a rumor there'd be no point in it. It wouldn't get any of us an inch closer to toppling your uncontested reign as the most notorious pirate captain since Teach--though Charles and I are coming for that title, just a bit of a friendly warning.” Rackham grins at him, actually grins, and James is so startled he laughs.

“Oh you think so?” Suddenly James likes Jack. He’s gonna tell him fuck all about his ‘problem,’ but he does like the bastard.

Jack grins right back. “I know so. But fine. Tell me, don't tell me, it hardly matters. Still, have a bit of friendly advice from me to you. Lighten the fuck up Flint. Hell, go find someone to warm your bed if you haven’t anyone. Charles has done some of his best strategizing with my cock up his arse, you should really look into it--remember when we took the Golden Hind? But I digress. That new bosun of yours, the one with the arms, you know who I mean. Get him to give you a tumble and I suspect you'd feel a bit less grouchy about other people's personal business.”

And James is drunk, and Jack's got him thinking about getting fucked. In this moment the pure animal pleasure of it appeals to him, to be bent over and used. He imagines the clarity coming the next morning, but with far fewer bruises than if he’d picked a real fight with Vane, or perhaps not fewer, but the sorts of bruises he’d relish all the next day rather than regret. And none of that is an excuse for what he says next but he can almost pretend it is.

“I thought it was _your_ cock that was the font of inspiration.”

Jack raises an eyebrow, though not entirely displeased with James’ proposition judging by the hint of a smile gracing the corner of his mouth. “My _inspirational_ qualities, such as they are, aren't typically given out to my rivals free of charge.”

It's James’ turn to raise an eyebrow. He really should drop it there but he’s not quite sober enough yet. “And what might it cost me?”

Jack looks eager then, too eager which James is tempted to tell him is a mistake. Never let them know how desperate you are. “Tell me why in the last two months you've not only barely turned a profit on your best hauls but seem to be actively throwing money away on others. We both know the talk about your supposed impotence and decline is bullshit--though I think Charles wants to believe it. But you're too good for that. So. What are you really after?”

The little shit really does intuit more than most. James suspects tomorrow he’s going to go back to finding it annoying, but it had always been charming on Thomas. ”Absolutely not.”  
  
Jack snorts. “You can't say it wasn't worth a shot though can you?”

“Maybe it's your spies who're becoming impotent if you thought outright asking me was worth it.”

Jack lays his cards out. “Something big is coming, isn't it? Maybe you won't or can't tell me what but I'm more observant than most, I can sense the change in the wind. The status quo isn't going to hold like this forever. The part I don't know is if whatever you're planning is going to save us all or damn everyone but you. I confess I worry.”

“You don't need to worry. Not about me.” A pause. “Feel free to worry plenty about what's coming,” he amends.

Jack makes a noncommittal noise. Then he seems to snap out of his calculations, clapping his hands together. “Well then. As the good book says, let us eat and drink; for tomorrow we die!”  
  
He stops Flint's “what do you--” with a bruising kiss, backing him up to hit the wall in the same fluid motion. Jack kisses like he’s starving for it, with a thoroughness that would put any whore to shame.  He needles his tongue into James’ mouth and James can taste alcohol and what he hopes to god isn’t Charles Vane. James also hopes Jack fucks the same way he kisses or else James really will regret this. Is he seriously thinking about getting fucked by Jack? He supposes he must be. Nassau truly is changing.

An idea comes to him then. Maybe he doesn’t want to get fucked, per se. Maybe what he needs is...he backtracks. He doesn’t _need_ anything from fucking Jack fucking Rackham, but what he might let Jack do if he behaves himself is…  
  
He relishes the near-squeak Jack lets escape when James paws at his crotch and flips their positions effortlessly. Turns out Jack’s a big boy. Good. James wants a challenge.

Still, he was more graceful at sinking to his knees when he was younger. He wishes that weren’t part of the challenge.

“Christ Flint, are you really going to--?”

"Only if you shut the fuck up.”

Jack’s eyes go wide but he blessedly complies. James wants to think more about the cock than who it’s attached to. His clothing is fancy to the point of annoyance--even Thomas wouldn’t be caught dead in these breeches--and it takes James all too long to figure out how to unfasten them. Jack’s already hard, and his cock nearly slaps James in the face when he gets the last button undone. James sort of wishes he’d let it. It’s not the loveliest cock he’s ever seen, the head not quite in proportion with the shaft and lacking enough girth to really stretch his mouth, but he’s definitely going to feel it in his throat and that will have to do.

James wastes little time in getting Jack’s cock in his mouth, licking a few times up and down the shaft and spitting once to get Jack nice and wet before he begins sucking, letting the smell of Jack flood his nostrils. God he’s missed doing this. He’d had to stop back in the navy when he’d come close to earning the type of reputation he desperately wished to avoid, but he’s lost neither his taste for it nor his skill at it. At the first suck Jack swears so loud James pulls off.

“Keep your fucking mouth shut or I walk away.”

Jack, unfortunately, calls his bluff. “No you won’t. You’re on your knees. For _me_ . I’m nothing to you. You must need this rather badly.”  
  
_Observant little shit,_ James thinks again. “Fine. Shut up or I bite it off. Happy?”

Jack shuts up.

James sucks for a bit, managing a little further down Jack’s shaft every couple of minutes, coming up for air to lick delicately at the precome leaking from his tip, sucking Jack’s balls into his mouth one by one until the spit is practically dripping from them, finding a rhythm that makes Jack’s breath hitch and causes him to bite his own knuckles to keep silent. Much better.

Eventually though, James gets bored of doing all the work. It’s not what he needs. He pulls off long enough for Jack to notice and look down from his daze. James slowly, deliberately, undoes the tie in his hair, takes Jack’s free hand in his, and encourages him to make a fist in the ginger strands, Jack not needing the instruction to grip tightly. He guides Jack’s hand forward and Jack lets the softest of _oh_ s escape. James forgives him because he’s finally starting to get it, hips tentatively easing off the wall and cock slowly--too slowly--thrusting into James’ mouth.

But James wants it to hurt. He wants to not be able to fucking speak tomorrow. He wants the bruises and the rough treatment and everything he’d get from a good fucking, but like this. He wants _clarity_.

The first proper snap of Jack’s hips makes James gag, and he could cry from how good it feels. Well, maybe the tears are just his body protesting at having not done this in years but still. Fucking finally.

James moans around Jack’s cock, a genuine sound that surprises James and Jack equally. He wraps a hand around the base to keep Jack from going too deep faster than James is prepared for, but otherwise lets Jack set the pace. Jack does it again, and again, and then starts finding his own rhythm. James’ mind goes quiet. _This_ is what he wanted. Nothing in the world but the slide-in slide-out of the cock that’s fucking his face. No time to worry about either the Urca or what Eleanor’s going to say about them fucking in her guest bed, no time to overthink anything, no time to be anywhere but right here, in between Jack’s legs. Several long glorious minutes where his mind is totally focused on the task at hand and nothing else.

He almost cries out at the loss when Jack stops, but it’s only to move a foot to the left and sit on the bed. James glares at Jack. How is the man supposed to fuck him when he’s sitting down. Jack gives him a look, a strange fond thing not unlike some of the looks he’d seen sent Vane’s way earlier that evening. That’s, that’s not right. Some unnameable hot feeling courses through James at that look.  
  
Jack laughs softly. “Honestly, you’re as bad as Charles. Shhh, don’t fret, I’ll see you’re seen to, there’s a good boy. Come here.” His voice is soft, like he’s talking to a horse he’s trying not to spook, like James might just bolt at any second, and maybe a while ago he would have, but now...  
  
James wants so badly to tell him to be quiet, but his throat hurts and moreover Jack’s managed to put him in some kind of trance that all he can do is shrug his coat off and crawl forward to rest his head back between Jack’s spread thighs as Jack runs his fingers through James’ hair, petting him. He should be worried, or angry Jack’s stopped listening to him, but the worry and the anger aren’t able to break their way through the bliss of the surety that he’ll be _seen to_.

“The rest of your clothes off, go on.” James doesn’t want to stop being petted, but the urge to obey, to let someone take the weight from his Atlas’ shoulders for just a moment, an hour, wins out. He sluggishly obeys, feeling drunk in a way that can’t still be the alcohol. He’s felt this once or twice before, this spell that comes over him in moments like these. It doesn’t seem to bother Jack, though he does help James with the buttons of his breeches when his fingers fumble and he can’t make them work well enough to undo the things.

Once James is bare, Jack runs his hands through the hair on James’ chest, over hard nipples. “Fuck but you’re lovely, aren’t you?” He places a single finger under James’ chin and tips his head up. James can only look at him through glazed eyes in danger of closing under the praise.  
  
“There are two ways this can go sweetheart: I finish in your mouth or I fuck you. Which will it be?”  
  
James doesn’t answer. He _can’t_ answer. He doesn’t know the answer. It’s whatever Jack wants. He shakes his head frantically, unable to think about making decisions.

“Alright alright, easy now, I’ll pick. I don’t see any oil readily available so how about you finish sucking me off, but you come up here on the bed to do it, yeah? It’ll be easier on your knees. That’s it, lie back.”  
  
James can only comply in his daze. “Lift up a bit, that’s right,” Jack croons, adjusting pillows under James’ head so that he’s propped up into half-sitting. Jack takes the opportunity to kiss James some more, breathless and uncaring that mere minutes ago James’ mouth was otherwise occupied and probably tastes like precome. Let Jack worry about that. He’s warm and good at it--the kissing and the worrying.

Jack eventually parts from James’ mouth, lips shiny and red from kissing, James’ throat still raw from cocksucking and mind too addled so he can’t protest. But then Jack makes his way up the bed so that he’s straddling James’ shoulders and his cock is back in James’ face, and oh yes that’s much better. Jack grips at James’ hair again, this time with both hands. James moans.  
  
“Tap me twice if you need air, otherwise I’m not going to stop. Do it now so I know you understand me.” James manages to lift two fingers and tap, once, twice, on Jack’s bared leg. At some point without James noticing he’d gotten the breeches and coat off, but his shirt is still draped over hard leaking cock and pale thighs alike. The effect is obscene and James wants nothing more in this moment than to bury his face there.

Which is precisely when Jack speaks again, “Stick out your tongue, yes just like that.” Jack wastes no time in letting his cock slap against it once, twice before rubbing it purposefully over James’ tongue and lips, smearing precome everywhere and forcing James to taste.  
  
“Go on, lick.”

James follows the order, mindlessly taking to his task. He flutters his tongue over the head, runs it around the ridge, presses it into Jack’s slit. He laves Jack’s shaft in long strokes, leaving sticky kisses down the length of him and massaging with his lips until Jack is moaning, high pitched and breathy, and squirming against James’ face. James sucks those big gorgeous balls into his mouth again as Jack lifts a hand from James’ shoulder to touch himself, and James sucks the salt from them until they taste like spit and nothing else. He lets them go to tease his tongue around and between Jack’s fingers, eliciting swearing from far above his head. They work in tandem, James sucking the head and Jack stroking the shaft, until James hears, from far away, like through water, “stop stop.” He does, and it’s not long after his compliance that Jack grabs James’ face and positions his cock at James’ lips.

The first thrust makes James’ eyes water. He’s too out of practice, even despite the warm up. He manages to get three fingers back around the wet base of Jack’s cock, which Jack accepts as a compromise. The hand Jack had been using to stroke is now gripping the headboard, providing him better leverage as he thrusts in and out of James’ waiting, pliant, willing mouth.

James was a navy man, practically born to be on the sea; he can hold his breath for a long time. Jack learns this as he’s able to keep his pace for some three or four minutes before James has to tap for breath. James sometimes remembers to twist his hand or play with Jack’s balls some more, but for the most part he’s only got the wherewithal to hold on and let Jack take his pleasure how he likes.  
  
After the first time James taps, as he’s panting and catching his breath, it occurs to him he’s hard. Shockingly, achingly hard, in fact. A fat drop of precome is oozing obscenely from his slit, and the thought manages to pierce the fog in his brain that he could touch himself.  
  
Jack feels his arm reaching for himself. “Go on, you’ve earned it. But you don’t come before I do.” James nods, pacified. He sets a slow pace, steadier than teasing but not enough to work himself into a frenzy until given permission.  
  
Spit is running down his chin onto his chest, his eyes are tearing up freely now--the second round of holding his breath more difficult than the first--and all he can hear is, strangely, the sound of the ocean roaring in his ears, like he’s drowning. Maybe he is, in a sense. Jack’s grinding his hips against James like his mouth is nothing more than a wet cunt for Jack to fuck, and the comparison makes James’ cock twitch and more precome leak out to slick his hand and make his movements that much easier. He speeds up his hand, jerking himself in earnest now.  
  
James is just about to tap again when, without warning, Jack gives a thrust that’s so hard James’ grip slips, and Jack’s cock sinks into him two inches too far, buried to the hilt. He chokes, but there’s nothing for it, Jack’s coming so far down his throat James can’t even taste it. He can only swallow and swallow and try not to gag as Jack pulses, thick ropes of come going straight into James’ belly. Jack scrambles to pull out, stuttering apologies, and succeeds just in time for one last fat spurt of come to land right on James’ tongue, bitter and salty and slick.  
  
But James doesn’t need or want an apology. In fact, two more strokes of his hand and he’s moaning loud and coming, the head of Jack’s cock the only thing muffling the noise, Jack’s eyes locked on his face.

“Christ Flint,” Jack manages through heaving breaths, after he’s pulled out fully from James’ mouth, cock growing soft and limp between his legs, “that was...unconscionable. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat if I thought you’d let me. Flint?”  
  
James can’t speak, his throat too raw and mind too slow. All he can do is wave his hand in a vague direction and hope that conveys--he doesn’t even know. Thinking is too much right now. Please don’t make him do any. He’s riding high on a cloud of post-orgasmic haze combined with whatever came over him that possessed him to suck Jack off in the first place, and he doesn’t want Jack to ruin it with talking.  
  
Whatever James’ message was, Jack seems to get it as he’s dressing. “Yes alright, that’s fair enough. I’ll leave you alone then. But Flint? Per our earlier conversation, keep up with me for one moment longer please, yes that’s it. If anything adverse happens to Charles or Anne, and I find out it’s your fault, be aware that this liaison will not save you. Good night.”

And with that Jack gets his last boot on and saunters through the gate, whistling.

James can only lay on the bed, naked and dumbfounded as he slowly comes to his senses. What the fuck did he just _do?_ Did Jack really just give him the best seeing to he’s had in nearly a decade, threaten him, and swan out as if he does this weekly?

Then another thought comes unbidden, odd enough to give him pause. Richard Guthrie’s man in Havana. If James can’t get the schedule, or can only find out part of it, he might be able to use Richard Guthrie’s man in Havana. He’d never considered that before.  
  
James laughs out loud, a great heaving hoarse thing that echoes around the empty bar and makes his stomach hurt.

Font of inspiration indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm rootingformephistopheles on tumblr if you wanna come yell about queer pirates :D


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